“It’s true,” Iakov adds. “Natalia told us herself. She drugged Mila, put that ring on her finger, and left her in that cabin to burn.”
“No.” Mikayla shakes her head. “No, that’s not true.”
“Ask her,” I suggest. “Ask her what really happened.”
Mikayla turns to Natalia. “Is it true?”
Natalia meets her gaze without flinching. “They’re lying. They’re trying to turn you against me.”
“Are they?” Mikayla’s voice is hollow and the pallor of her face goes whiter and whiter, as if the truth is slowly sinking in, one layer of skin at a time. Then muscle. Then bone. Until it hits the core of her and finds a home there, a home that’s always been waiting for it. “Because it… it makes sense. You said it was him, but it never felt right. It never?—”
“Mikayla, listen to me?—”
“Did you do what he’s saying or not?”
Natalia doesn’t answer.
That’s answer enough.
“You killed my sister.” Mikayla stumbles backwards. “You killed her and you let me believe it was him.”
Natalia’s face twists into an impudent sneer. “I did what I had to do.”
“You murdered an innocent girl!”
Mikayla’s hand goes to the gun at her hip. She draws it slowly, the barrel trembling as she points it at Natalia.
“Put that away, you stupid girl,” Natalia says calmly.
“No.”
“Mikayla—”
“You killed her. You killed Mila and you lied to me for years.”
“I saved your life. I gave you purpose. I?—”
Mikayla starts to pull the trigger.
But Natalia is faster. Her gun is already out, already aimed. She fires once.
And Mikayla crumples to the ground.
I lunge forward, but Taras grabs my arm, holding me back. The armed men surrounding us raise their weapons, fingers on triggers.
Natalia lowers her smoking gun and looks down at Mikayla’s body. “Well, that’s certainly disappointing.”
I want to kill her. I want to put a bullet in her skull and watch the life drain from her eyes.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I find Olivia.
Natalia turns to Iakov. “And now, you’ve teamed up with your father’s murderer? Are you that pathetic? Have you no love for the man who raised you?”
“Stefan didn’t kill my father.”
“Of course he did. How many times must we go over this? He exiled him, and in his grief, Mikhail?—”
A voice cuts through the air. Weak. Raspy. But unmistakable. “She’s lying.”
